The Brighter, Cold Moon
by zero
Summary: Spike and Drusilla come to terms with themselves, each other, and fate.


TITLE: "The Brighter, Cold Moon"  
AUTHOR: zero  
EMAIL: zero@jamesmarsters.com  
DISTRIBUTION: Good idea. Put this on your web page. But please e-mail me  
with the URL so I can look...and boost my own ego.  
RATING: PG  
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Dru  
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Mutant Enemy, Sandollar, Kuzui, and some other  
lucky blokes.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one's for Tiff and Saffron, both of whom were kind  
enough to beta for me and offer the great feedback that makes me a writing  
addict. This story can be found on the web at my new site,  
http://www.zeroimpact.com/  
  
  
THE BRIGHTER, COLD MOON  
by Zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)  
  
  
Later he would say that it was simple restlessness that drove him from his  
bed, and he would deny that he ever shivered with the absolute cold of her  
embrace. Later, he would have his regrets to haunt him in the darkest  
hours of night and the brightest of day. But in that moment, only instinct  
and a vague sense of discomfort drove him, and he urged his body upright,  
placed his feet on the cold stone floor, drew on his trousers, and stepped  
outside.   
  
The night was cold, but for once, no clouds obscured the midnight sky. The  
balcony stood washed in white under a tapestry of stars, casting even his  
already-pale skin with a silver gloss. The crickets continued to chirp.   
Somewhere, a dog bayed. A single car, lanterns blazing in the darkness,  
roared by on the country road, a mile and a half from the house.  
  
The moon hung full and ripe, its glow nearly blinding even through the  
thin tendrils of fog blown in from nearby London. The stars shone in a  
fashion subdued, as if deferential to their mistress moon and not wishing  
to incur her wrath by overpowering her with their own light. He thought it  
wise of them to submit.  
  
He sat and stared for at least an hour, perched on the carved marble  
balcony rail, its smooth surface cold against his own cool palms. An  
aching stiffness developed in his neck, but he took no notice of it, his  
gaze fixed on the orb in the sky, unusually large and round and  
predominant in his vision. The moon.   
  
Even when whispy clouds rolled in to blot out the stars, they avoided the  
path of lunar light and slunk away to more hospitable environs. Shining  
brightly in the sky, the moon touched his skin with white light, casting  
him in stark contrast, painting him to passersby on the far-away road like  
an unmoving gargoyle seated on the balcony. Her light was cold, cold  
enough to make even the undead shiver; and he did, slightly, and wrapped  
his arms around himself for a moment before shaking the sensation off.  
  
Someone had said that the moon was a cruel mistress. This was true, to  
him, one of the absolutes of the universe. She threw off a light that was  
harsh, but at the same time, brilliant. Enough distance placed to make  
on-lookers yearn for a breath of her mystery, and close enough to make  
them fall in love. A touch of silver, soft and caressing on bared skin,  
yet cold enough to freeze the unwary. Cruel? Yes. But loved enough that  
even cruelty could not make him let go.   
  
"Being your slave," he said to the moon, "what should I do but send Upon  
the hours and times of your desire?" He halted, then opened his mouth as  
if to continue, then snapped it shut again, the memory gone, and the words  
eluding him.  
  
Another hour passed with the rhythmic music of insects, before the clouds  
rolled in. They made their entrance quietly and without fanfare, and  
surprised him when they suddenly stole like thieves over the moon. The  
silver light fled from his flesh, and darkness snapped at his eyes, held  
at bay only by weak artificial lights: the far-off city, the candles from  
inside. When his eyelids flickered shut, the afterimage of the bright moon  
burned there briefly, and when they opened again, the moon was gone. Stars  
stood watch about the moon's shrouded place in the sky, burning brightly.   
They seemed warmer, somehow, as if one could almost reach out and touch  
them. As if they weren't quite so far...   
  
He turned with a sigh and stepped back into the room, feeling a brush of  
wind at his back and closing the balcony door behind him, to keep the cold  
outside.  
  
Before he even reached the bed, her voice invaded the quiet. "Spike?"  
  
"Right here, pet," he murmured, his voice infinitely gentle as it always  
was with her. Patient. Respectful. Loving. A million other subtle tones  
that lacked adjectives to describe them.   
  
She rolled over to face him as he shed his trousers again and slipped into  
bed beside her. "Spike," she whispered, pale hands fluttering up to rest  
on his chest. "Will you love me when the stars burn out?"   
  
He smiled, softly, and slipped his arms around her bare back, pulling her  
closer. There was no warmth in her embrace, but a thrill of smooth skin.  
"Long after the stars burn out, Dru."  
  
"Even after the moon dies?"  
  
She was caught in a tender kiss, his teeth tugging gently at her lower  
lip, before Spike yielded a response.  
  
"Even after the moon dies, love. Forever."  
  
She smiled dreamily, and tucked her head under his chin, left hand sliding  
away from his chest and around to his back, wrapping him in half an  
embrace. "The moon must taste delightful," she commented, pausing to press  
her lips to his collarbone. "It must have the sweetest blood. But you  
mustn't ever bite it. It mustn't be harmed."  
  
"Of course not," Spike agreed, settling comfortably against her. "The moon  
belongs to my princess, and no one else can touch it."  
  
Her withdrawal was sudden; one moment she was with him in bed, and the  
next she'd slipped from under the sheets and was standing, nude, at the  
balcony doors. The moon, having shaken itself free from black, fleecy  
clouds, bathed her in white, a carved statue, crafted by a master's hands.  
Her dark hair fell like a raven's wing over a porcelain cheek, and her  
eyes gleamed with tiny reflections of the moon.   
  
"No one can touch the moon," she repeated, sharply. Then her voice  
softened to the purr of a kitten. "Only princess can touch it." Her hands  
flew to her hair, drawing it back and out of the way, before dropping  
again to her sides. The hair slid immediately back to where it had started  
out, and she didn't seem to notice. "Spike can't touch it."   
  
He sat up in the bed, staring at her, the sheets pooled in his lap and his  
arms flung out behind and to the sides, propping him up. The lunar light  
didn't reach him in the bed; its edge splashed across the floor a few feet  
away. Spike was cast only in the faded yellow light of fire, from candles  
burning on the armoire. "Ducks?" His tone was whispered, and if she heard  
she did not respond.  
  
"Spike can't touch the moon," Dru repeated, voice distressed. "He loves  
the moon, but it can't love him back. Everyone is very sad. There are  
clouds over the moon, but the stars shine ever so brightly. They hurt my  
eyes."  
  
He frowned, watching her, not replying but waiting for her to speak again.   
She did not, just stood in the doorway, shivering. When he rose to go to  
her, to wrap her in his arms, she threw open the balcony doors and stepped  
outside. He hesitated only for a split second, hovering between the  
darker, candlelit half of the room and the whitewashed, moonlit half. Then  
he stepped into the silvery glow and followed her onto the balcony.  
  
She sat where he had, her smooth round buttocks at rest on the broad rail,  
her thin-fingered hands curved around the chiseled edges. And her gaze was  
turned on the same bright moon, though its position in the sky had  
changed. Her face was tilted upward, shining eyes opened to watch the  
heavens, and the column of her neck shined like alabaster.  
  
"The moon is trapped, you know," Drusilla informed him, in a very serious,  
very authoritative voice. "There's a great black blanket thrown about the  
earth at night, and the poor moon is trapped beneath, suffocating. It  
wants ever so much to spin away into the dark, but the earth needs it  
terribly."   
  
Discomfort increasing with every word drawn from her lips, he stepped  
forward to stand at her side, leaning back against the railing and facing  
the house, so that he could watch her as she spoke. The moonlight trailed  
down the curve of his back and hugged his flanks, forcing another minute  
shiver from a body that didn't really feel the cold at all.  
  
"There's great sadness in the sky," she continued. "The moon cries and  
cries." She sat for a moment, completely silent, then seemed to come to  
herself and realized that Spike was there beside her. A smile lit her  
face, and she leaned in to quickly press their lips together.  
  
"Are you cold, my Spike?" she asked, hands pressed to his shoulders.  
"Fetch me a blanket."  
  
He nodded wordlessly, kissing her lightly on the cheek before moving  
indoors again, retrieving a thick, warm blanket from the unused closet and  
bringing it back to her on the balcony. He moved to wrap it around her  
body, but she shook her head, plucked it from his grasp, and wrapped him  
in it instead. Her arms twined firmly about his blanket-covered chest, and  
her cold body pressed against his from behind, trapping the fabric between  
them.  
  
"The sun is beyond it," she whispered in his ear, holding his motionless  
body tight in her embrace. "The sun is beyond the sable blanket in the  
sky, and it can only shine through in the worn spots. See?" She  
relinquished half of her grip to point one hand at the sky, her finger  
arching at the largest and brightest of the stars, then her arm clutched  
at him again. "In the morning," she continued, "the sky will wake up, and  
yawn, and stretch its legs and throw the covers off, and the sun will come  
in."  
  
He turned in the loop of her hold, wondering if the vivid imagery she'd  
produced was the product of her maddened mind, or a brief moment of  
lucidity. Her dark, hooded eyes lent no evidence to either conclusion, and  
the slight smile on her lips only deepened the mystery.  
  
"Dru?" he whispered, not quite sure what his question was, but knowing he   
had to ask it.  
  
She shushed him with a hissing of breath and a slender finger to his lips.   
"Even after the moon has died?" she asked again, black eyes meeting his  
blue ones.   
  
"Even after," he answered, but the words caught in his throat and came out  
somewhat strangled. "Always."  
  
Dru nodded decisively, letting go of him and turning her contemplation to  
the sky again. "The stars are warmer," she said, fingers clutching the  
rail with white-knuckled intensity. "Do you like the stars, Spike?"   
  
He looked, too, his gaze drawn to that smallest, brightest point. Evening  
star. Some far-off sun...or just a hole in the sky's blanket. "They're  
lovely, Dru," he told her, standing behind her and wrapping them both in  
the blanket. "But they're nothing to the moon."  
  
She sighed, nodded. "The moon is untouchable," she declared. "And the  
stars are warm." She turned abruptly and pushed at him with gentle hands  
until he stood once again inside the room. Her lips met his from across  
the threshold, joining them together in a fierce kiss, then she abruptly  
drew back and closed the doors delicately in his face. He didn't attempt  
to open them again, but watched as she climbed back onto the rail,  
balancing herself carefully as she drew her legs up, crossed at the ankle,  
her arms wrapped about her knees and chin resting on her interlaced  
fingers.   
  
After a few long moments of stillness from the world, Drusilla's head  
turned and looked back at him. Some emotion that looked almost like  
gratitude flashed in her eyes when she saw him still standing where she'd  
placed him, not attempting to open the door and rejoin her. A delighted  
smile spread across her face, and she said, just loud enough to carry  
through the night air and the glass of the doors, "For this relief much  
thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart."   
  
The fact that she could quote Shakespeare spoke that she knew exactly what  
she was doing. The searing pain that had blossomed in his chest didn't  
lessen, but rather gained strength, as he turned from the door and  
retreated to the bed. He didn't bother with the covers; instead he curled  
up on top of them, the blanket wrapped tightly around his naked body, and  
cried.  
  
When the morning came, and the sky threw back its blanket of night and  
yawned and stretched its legs and let the sun in, there was a quiet sound,  
somewhere between a demon's scream and a child's relieved sob. Black ashes  
dashed themselves against the weatherworn marble of the balcony, then took  
flight on a strong morning breeze. Inside, a figure whose true nature met  
somewhere between man and beast huddled on the bed; he sighed, expelling  
air through a throat raw from tears, shivered violently, and squeezed his  
eyes tightly shut. Behind them flashed the images of moon and stars,  
burned into his vision.  
  
THE END  
  
'T was noontide of summer,  
And mid-time of night;  
And stars, in their orbits,  
Shone pale, thro' the light  
Of the brighter, cold moon,  
'Mid planets her slaves,  
Herself in the Heavens,  
Her beam on the waves.  
I gaz'd a while  
On her cold smile;  
Too cold--too cold for me.  
There pass'd as a shroud,  
A fleecy cloud,  
And I turn'd away to thee,  
Proud Evening Star,  
In thy glory afar,  
And dearer thy beam shall be;  
For joy to my heart  
Is the proud part  
Thou bearest in Heav'n at night,  
And more I admire  
Thy distant fire  
Than that colder, lowly light.  
  
- "Evening Star"  
Edgar Allan Poe  
  
  
-------------------------------  
Send feedback. Or chocolate.  
zero@jamesmarsters.com  
http://www.jamesmarsters.com/  
-------------------------------  
  
  



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